Before daylight or after dark, heading south on Route 94 over the state line, on that deadly curve that everyone takes too fast … that’s when you first see it. Pitch black then suddenly it materializes as a cluster of glowing orange balls. No matter how many times I take this route, my mouth still produces a tiny gasp every time it comes into view. The Mountain. I learned to ski at Mountain Creek back when it was Vernon Valley/Great Gorge and Richard Nixon was President (LOL). One of my many reasons I moving to Warwick was that I thought it would be so very cool to have a ski area 15 minutes away. (And how great for my daughters to grow up with that accessibility … unfortunately they loathe the cold.) But like a siren on the shore, those lights beckon me each time I see them in the distance. And some of the most exhilarating moments of my youth were spent swishing down those trails and runs. I don’t strap on the Rossignols as often as I used to. Life gets in the way (and so does the crowds …. Don’t you hate people who stand in the middle of Great Northern??? Move to the side of the trail!!!) But hopefully one of these nights, when it isn’t 5 degrees out, I will find the time to ride the Cabriolet to the top and feel the rush as I descend the mountain under those orange lights.
Posted on: Fri, 16 Jan 2015 11:04:20 +0000
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